


Dog Eat Dog

by undercoverj



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: ALL OF IT, Gen, Ghost King Danny Fenton, Violence, also i ignored............ canon, but only the exposition, i have like an entire line of events of what happens after this but no urge to write it lol, is that i wanted to write ghost king danny exposition, the best that i can explain this, this is all so far from canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24054574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undercoverj/pseuds/undercoverj
Summary: Ghosts aren't known for their ability to respect authority. Being the Ghost King is the prime example of that.
Relationships: Clockwork & Danny Fenton
Comments: 9
Kudos: 266





	Dog Eat Dog

**Author's Note:**

> I figured I might as well post this because, uh. It was going to be so much longer but I kind of lost steam? And sometimes posting things gives me a fun little boost, so I might continue this if I get that good good dopamine from posting lol. 
> 
> Warnings for violence. A lot of violence. And the fact that I changed literally everything about _Reign Storm_ , because I actually haven't watched it in years and don't remember most of it. This fic is a little dumb and shaky because I'm still testing out concept stuff/characterization stuff. I've only been here for like, a week.

Real life hand-to-hand lasted only minutes, usually—adrenaline worked against the human body, exhausting it quickly. His mom had explained this to him, when she’d first taught him how to fight; he’d asked her, sheepishly, if she would teach him some moves after he passed off a black eye he’d gotten from Skulker as Dash’s fault. Danny had known she wouldn’t just call the school—Maddie Fenton had an independence streak three miles wide, and if there was trouble in the family, it was to be handled by the family and no one else. 

_ The goal of a fight is to end it, _ she’d said. The words rattled around in his chest for weeks after. 

Ghost fights were prolonged, because ghosts didn’t tire the way humans did. Adrenaline didn’t provide a hormonal high only to sap them of their strength on the backend. Ghost fights were brutal—there was no exhausting your opponent, there was only beating them into a pulp. Fighting against ghosts was an ectoplasmic slugfest until one proved itself stronger than the other. That’s where the thermos came in handy; Danny was only half ghost, and he couldn’t fight forever, but the goal of a fight was to end it, and so he did.

But there wasn’t a thermos that could hold Pariah Dark. There wasn’t an easy out. There wasn’t a way to one-up him, his ectosignature was so far off the charts that none of the Fenton armory could even key into it—there was only Pariah, and the endless fight. 

“How did you, y’know, actually stop him, though,” Tucker asked. Danny was still bedbound. They’d hidden Danny in Tucker’s attic, letting the rest of the town think he’d gone missing in the chaos, while he healed—it would only be a couple days, as long as Danny stayed in ghost form. 

The truth was that between exhaustion and panic Danny didn’t remember much of the fight with Pariah—he knew it had decimated a third of Amity, and he knew that he’d had to pause every so often to pull stragglers out of the way. He knew that at one point he’d sliced Pariah’s arm clean off. He knew that he was regrowing a spleen from where Pariah had torn it out. He knew that he’d ripped out Pariah’s other eye, and that Pariah had responded by snapping his arm like a twig. Bright bursts of fiery pain in a slog of dull aching. 

“You don’t want to know,” Danny asked. 

Tucker snorted. “If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t ask.”

What Danny did remember clearly—painfully, achingly clearly—was standing over Pariah, ectoplasm gurgling from the Ghost King’s mouth, his gut fried from a lucky ectoplasm blast Danny had worked in.

“I have touched your mind, half-breed,” he spat. Ectoplasm flew through the air. “I will destroy you. I will destroy those puny weaklings you fraternize with—I will destroy them, pick their flesh apart, peel their skin back as they scream—”

The ectoplasm in Danny’s hand had elongated, lengthened, hardened. Sharpened. 

Green stained Pariah’s fangs. “I have touched your mind. You are a coward—a fool—you will not do what is needed! I am  _ King—” _

Danny sliced off his head. Ghosts didn’t die the way humans did—it wasn’t the decapitation that would destroy Pariah. It was the defeat. Pariah destabilized entirely, into a forest of green fire. Danny stumbled back and watched it burn, until all that was left was the crown and the ring.

“I cut off his head,” Danny said, hollowly. “Ghost forms aren’t perfect imitations of human bodies, or even animal bodies, but they’re close enough. You know what happens when you cut off a ghost’s head?”

Tucker’s eyes were wide. “What?” he asked, softly.

“Ectoplasm spurts out. Like a fucking fire hydrant. It’s disgusting.”

Danny didn’t sleep, after he woke up from his initial unconsciousness. The image of the ectoplasmic blade slicing through Pariah’s neck—it was there when he closed his eyes, it was there in his peripheral vision like a crouching demon. He’d never destroyed a ghost before. He’d never wanted to. Some part of him ached, soul-deep; Pariah was a monster that had terrorized ghosts and humans alike, but maybe there had been a better way. 

But the goal of the fight was to end it.

“Dude, you okay?” Tucker asked. “You look… not great.”

“Thanks,” Danny said, wryly.

“I mean, more not great than usual. Not to say that you’re ugly, dog, but usually you go around looking like you faceplanted into solid concrete five times in a row and then microwaved yourself to death.”

“That’s kind of accurate, actually.”

Tucker groaned. “You know what I mean!”

Danny’s smile fell off his face. “It’s,” he said, and then sucked in a breath, “I keep thinking—maybe there was a better way. Maybe if we’d been in the Ghost Zone, I could’ve just… put him back where he’d been. The forever sleep. But instead, I, uh, decapitated him.”

“Can I ask a dumb question, before I tell you how dumb you are for feeling guilty that you totally axed a murderous maniac ghost,” Tucker said.

“Yeah, sure.”

Tucker’s gaze skittered sideways. “I know getting decapitated would kill  _ you, _ but I didn’t think it would… kill  _ a _ ghost. I mean, they’re already dead. And even if you decapitated him—which, badass, by the way—how did you… even get there? No offense, Danny, but you’re not that strong. You’re a good ghost fighter, but you’re no Ghost King-slayer.”

“Oh,” Danny said. “No, no, Pariah’s obsession was victory. I denied him his obsession, and he fell apart. I didn’t have to win. I just had to make sure he didn’t.”

Tucker frowned. “How’d you know his obsession?”

Danny shrugged. “Ghost intuition. You can kind of sense another ghost’s obsession, especially when it’s really strong. And he wouldn’t shut up about it during the fight.”

Tucker looked at the hands folded in his lap. He was sitting cross-legged by the nest of blankets and pillows he and Sam had rustled up for Danny, illuminated only by the glow of Danny’s ghost form and a flashlight. “I’m glad you’re alive, man,” he said, quietly. “When we found you… you scared the hell out of me. I’m glad that shitty Pariah Dark fucker is long gone and you’re here.”

Danny studied him. He looked exhausted, and somehow thinner, willowy. Tucker had always been scrawny—and so had Danny, up until the advent of daily ghost fighting—but now he was whippet-thin. 

“I’m sorry,” Danny said, thickly.

Tucker punched him in the shoulder, careful to avoid the bruises left by Pariah’s battering. “Don’t be. Don’t be, seriously. It’s not your fault. I just don’t want to lose my best friend.”

“You won’t,” Danny said. 

Danny’s injuries stitched themselves up entirely by late in that afternoon, but he wasn’t allowed to transform back until Sam had looked him over. She did so critically, cautiously, and then she’d squeezed his hand and said, “You’re gonna have some gnarly scars, especially on your stomach, but you’re okay.”

“Yay,” Danny said, half-hearted. “Please remind me to never have my spleen ripped out again. That hurt like hell to regrow.”

“You regrew a spleen?” Tucker squeaked. 

“I think it was a spleen,” Danny said. 

Sam’s face had turned gray. “Let’s hope,” she said, “that we never see another Ghost King. Ever.”

—

“Why are you following me.”

The man sitting at the booth took another messy bite of his Nasty burger. “You took your time. Come, sit.”

He’d been in the coffee shop when Danny had been walking home with Sam and Tucker for the last three days in a row. He’d been at the football game yesterday, and he’d been a visitor at the school assembly on Thursday, and he’d been smoking a cigarette on the steps beside the Fentons’ house that morning, and every time there was an intensity to his presence, a quiet,  _ look at me. Look through me, and see.  _

The man was ancient, thin and wiry and shining white hair. There was Nasty sauce dribbling down his fingers. His denim shirt was tucked into brown khakis, glasses perched crookedly on the end of his nose, and his eyes were a steel gray—he looked for all the world like a normal old man enjoying a meal. But power, power like Danny had never sensed before, thrummed under his skin. Standing in front of him had ice billowing up his chest and into his mouth—a ghost sense, but constantly present. A warning. 

“Who are you,” Danny snarled.

“Sit,” the man said, gesturing to the empty space across from him. “I will buy you a burger. Or, rather, this David will buy you a burger.”

Danny sat, slowly, almost against his will. There was something commanding in the frayed voice, an undercurrent of  _ listen to me, listen to me, hear me speak. _

“I haven’t had a burger before, you know,” the man said. “Quite interesting flavor. I understand why they call it a Nasty burger.”

“What do you want,” Danny snapped. His eyes burned—he knew they were flaring acidic green, and he ducked his head. It was midday and the Nasty Burger wasn’t exactly packed, but there were enough people around that he kept his voice pitched quiet.

“Ordinarily, I would have no use for this… flesh suit. I would not have taken this David from his life unless absolutely necessary. But,” and the man said this with a sly smile, “I am currently breaking the rules.”

“Answer me,” Danny demanded. “Who are you, and what do you want? And what rules are you breaking?”

“Those imposed on me by an order of half-wits.”

“Can you answer a question without giving me a hundred more?” Danny hissed. 

The man’s eyebrow raised. “Tell me, Danny. What do you know of the science of time?”

“What?”

“Time is not linear, as you know,” the man said. “It warps around objects with high mass, becomes slower. You can travel backwards in time by glancing off of a black hole, because black holes are so dense they warp time itself.”

I knew that, Danny thought, indignantly. “I read Stephen Hawking theories too, pal.”

“Have you ever considered how time must pass in the dimension of the dead? A realm populated by those for which time has stopped, and yet time passes still. That is my doing. I am Father Time to the dead. But you may call me Clockwork.”

“Clockwork,” Danny said, testing the word on his tongue. “Okay. Assuming I believe that. What the hell are you doing here?”

Clockwork took a moment to finish his burger, and then balled up the wax paper, dropping it on his red plastic tray. “Let me paint a picture for you. You know humans. All their flaws, their petty conflicts, their chaotic nature—you are hated by a great deal of humans, humans that you have personally laid your half-life down for.”

“Can we talk about this somewhere else, maybe?” Danny said, nervously, eyes skittering to the other booths.

Clockwork waved a dismissive hand. “By my nature I cannot be perceived by humans until they are on their deathbeds. I am the hourglass the Grim Reaper carries. And no one here is dying. Our conversation, to the outside observer, is that between grandfather and grandson.”

Danny winced. “My granddad’s dead, but, alright.”

“Back to my painting. Humans are beautifully, wonderfully flawed. The ghostly imprints they leave behind are equally flawed, if not moreso. Ghosts are a cannibalistic, power-hungry lot. We are suspicious and cowardly. Because we are the strong emotions a person has left behind, and—more often than not—the emotions strong enough to turn passive ectoplasmic energy into kinetic ectoplasmic energy are overwhelmingly negative.”

“I kind of got that the first time I was almost skinned alive, thanks.”

Clockwork took a sip of his soda. “There is much you do not know, little one. The exposition is necessary.”

Danny spluttered.  _ “Little one?” _

“My afterlife’s work has been to provide—what do you call it? The Ghost Zone? I provide  _ structure _ to the Ghost Zone. I work with the Ghost Zone’s only ruling body, a group of ancient ghosts who watch over time as it flows and ebbs obsessively. The Observants. They are not all-knowing. Far from it. We have… temporal disagreements. They see time as a singular line, I see it as a tree, or even a forest of infinite trees, with infinite branches. They,” and here, Clockwork finally broke eye contact with Danny, “would see you perish.”

“Already halfway there,” Danny joked. 

“Halfas were not something they saw coming. In their limited view of time, they missed… possibility. They are threatened by you, and they are going to let your new status destroy you.”

Danny laid his palms flat on the table. “Okay, ‘Clockwork.’ I’ll bite. What new status?”

Clockwork’s knowing smile was starting to get annoying. “Ghosts, as I said, are a chaotic, power-hungry group. We are compromised almost wholly of individuals born of extreme negative emotion. Ghost hierarchy is—hrm, how to put this—I believe it’s ‘dog eat dog.’ Ascension by combat. The highest seat in the hierarchy is that of the Ghost King.”

“No,” Danny said, softly.

“You are the Ghost King.”

“No, fuck no,” Danny said. “No, no, I’m not. I’m Danny, I’m Phantom, but I’m not a fucking—Ghost King!”

Clockwork’s expression was bemused. “You sliced off his head. You defeated him, and in the ways of our kind, that makes you King, whether you accept the title or not. It is an informal title, anyway; being Ghost King does not mean you are a monarch.”

“Then… what does it mean?” Danny asked. 

“It means you have the power,” Clockwork said, and, here, his voice turned soft. “It is a title that means you can slaughter any ghost to cross you. That’s all. They will come for you, and they will come for Amity, looking to prove themselves King. You have days before this reaches across the Ghost Zone, and challengers begin to appear. It—simply put—is a target on your back.”

“I don’t want to kill anyone,” Danny said, remembering the sickening squelch of Pariah’s ectoplasm after Danny had sliced off his head. 

“They’re already dead,” Clockwork said, amused. “But, yes, I understand your point. That is exactly why I have come to you.”

“Because I’m stupid enough to say I don’t want to kill ghosts out loud?” Danny asked.

“Because you, little one, have a moral compass. You care. Deeply. You are fundamentally, unfathomably good, even in the face of cruelty—your dedication to protecting this town is beyond admirable. It is not how a typical ghost would behave at all.”

Danny looked away. “Okay,” he said, flatly, uncomfortable with the way the words hit him square in the chest.

“Which is why you are the perfect Ghost King. With your help, little one, I believe—the Ghost Zone may become… a better place.”

Danny swallowed. “I think I’m gonna choose to believe this is all a crock of bull my brain cooked up because I haven’t slept in three days.”

“The Observants would see the onslaught of challengers destroy you,” Clockwork said. “I think you are more valuable half alive. And here we come, finally, at long last, to my proposition; allow me, and select others, to train you. Prepare you, as fast as we can.”

“I don’t understand,” Danny said, mutely. “I—why would it matter? Why train me? If the ghosts are coming after me, that’s putting people in harm’s way because of me, and I can’t—I can’t do that. I’m sorry. It sounds like you want better things for the Ghost Zone, and I wish you luck, but I’m not the guy you’re looking for.”

“Amity will be in danger with or without you. Wouldn’t you rather it have a protector? Wouldn’t you rather try making the need for a protector… obsolete?”

“How,” Danny said. “I don’t—how am I supposed to change the Ghost Zone? Ghosts don’t change.”

“Mercy,” Clockwork said, finally, “is a powerful thing.”

“Funny you’re asking me to fix the Ghost Zone by showing mercy, after I destroyed Pariah Dark,” Danny said, tightly. “Funny, that. Hilarious. You think I can fix things? You think I can do anything to help you? Fuck off. How many people do I actually save, how much good do I actually do, if you weigh it against every single time I’ve screwed up and gotten someone hurt? Or, worse, eliminated from both planes of existence.”

Danny stood, roughly, knees bumping against the table. 

Clockwork looked sad. “I hope you change your mind, little one.”

Danny squirmed. “Stop calling me that. It reminds me of—someone else. Just—go away. I’m done with this. I’m not the Ghost King and I never will be.”

Clockwork stood, and pressed a gold-rimmed black medallion, with a black silk chain, into Danny’s hand. “If you reconsider,” he said.

“I won’t,” Danny snapped. 

“But the possibility exists, in time’s infinite forest. If you reconsider, hold this, and call for me.”

Danny snatched it and stormed away.  _ The goal of a fight is to end it  _ rang through his head. 

**Author's Note:**

> TL;DR my thinking for a lot of this is that I see Danny being a literal monarch over dead people a lot, and I just kind of wanted to explore a concept that was maybe being the Ghost King isn't about ruling shit! It's about being the best at beating the shit out of other people! Which is kind of more in line with how I think of ghosts, which is that they're literal dead people, and people kind of suck. We're not great, as a species. Which is also all really very fun because I don't think Danny enjoys inflicting ~gratuitous violence~ at all, and is probably having a shit ton of nightmares involving decapitation at the moment, lol. 
> 
> Clockwork wanting Danny to be Good Example Of Good Ghost kind of came out of nowhere, tbh, I just went with it, it's not like it's contradicting any motivations he has in the show.


End file.
